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DRIFTWOOD 

BY 

RUSSELL WHITCOMB 

^^RUSS RUSCOW 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

The Gorham Press 
1906 



Copyright 1906 by RusSEi^L Whitcomb 



All Rights Reserved 



L5BRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoKiec Received 

DF.C 14 5 906 

■ /rxOowright Entry 
CLASS A XXC, No. 
COPY B. 






Many of the verses in this volume appeared origin- 
ally in The New York Times, Suburban Life, The 
Christian Intelligencer, The Presbyterian Standard, 
The Haidem Argus, The New Jersey Standard, The 
Editor, The Oracle, and The National Sportsman. 
The author desires to thank the editors of these 
periodicals for their courteous permission to reprint 
these verses in this form. 



The Gorham Press, Boston 



CONTENTS 






Driftwood ...... 7 


Sunrise at Sea 








7 


The White and the Red 








8 


The Moon . 








8 


My Garden Sleeps 








9 


Sunset 








9 


Reflection 








9 


The Old Garden . 








10 


The Coming of Winter 








10 


By the Fire 








10 


The Blizzard 








11 


Farewell Old Year 








11 


Hail to the New Year 








11 


Cloud Scamps 








12 


Moods 








13 


The Rose . 








13 


Deceit 








14 


The Pictures in the Pan 








15 


The Letter . 








16 


Spring Fever 








18 


Seed Sowing 








18 


Life . 








19 


Hail to Spring 








20 


Summer Flowers 








20 


Alone 








20 


On the Threshhold 








20 


Love-Light 








21 


In the Crucible 








22 


Sunset Dreams 








22 



Birthdays 






23 


The Whisperings of the Muses 




23 


Caution .... 




24 


Where Love is Trtie 






24 


A Question 






26 


Harriette 






26 


Southern Eyes 






27 


A Corner of the Library 






28 


At Grandmother's House 






30 


My First Pockets 






31 


When Life was all Fun 






33 


Boyhood Sports 






34 


Golden Fruit 






34 


Happy Tears 






36 


The Light House 






36 


A Romance of the Rocks 






37 


The Cry of Russia 






38 


Retribution 






38 


The Sign in the Sky 






39 


The Call of the Stars 






39 


Courage 






41 


The Call 






42 


Faith 






43 


Black and White 






43 


At Night .... 






44 


The Reason 






44 


Come on Boys 






45 


The Awakening . 






46 


'Twas ever Thus 






46 


The Re-Incarnation of Youth 






47 


School Days 






48 


Friendship 






49 



This Driftwood burns with many hues, 
The somber, and the brighter : 
The deep tones will appeal to some. 
While others like the Hghter. 



DRIFTWOOD 

When autumnal gales first ravage, 

With the East-wind's awesome screech, 

And when spent, leave strewn the wreckage 

Along the chastened beach, 

It is then I gather drift-wood 

For the spacious chimney fire, 

That the ever-changing colors, 

May my sleeping Muse inspire. 

And the songs my Muse will whisper 
Are too sweet to pen or tell, 
While I watch the burning embers. 
Held entranced by mystic spell. 
There can never be a magnet 
That will draw my Muse to me, 
Like the burning of the drift-wood, 
That I gather from the sea. 



SUNRISE AT SEA 

The clouds are cold with a leaden grey. 
Where they meet the horizon far away, 
Then soft, fair tints of the coming dawn. 
Melt the cold grey into a delicate fawn, 
While fingers of light, so soft and faint. 
Begin at the edge of the clouds to paint. 

Shade by shade the colors are spread, 

From deUcate pink to gorgeous red, 

And the artist's touch grows firm and bold, 

As he floods the sky with a burning gold. 

Then the ocean's swept with the sunhght free, 

As the Day- King leaps from the waves of the sea. 



THE WHITE AND THE RED 

American Beauty, 
So fair to the eye, 
Thou hast not a rival 
'Neath all the blue sky. 
When by the pure Lily 
You lift your proud head, 
All nature bows down 
To the White and the Red. 

American Beauty 
And Lily so fair, 
With thy contrasting glory. 
What else can compare? 
In the realm of fair flowers 
On sunbeams you're fed. 
As you bend to the breezes : 
The White and the Red. 

American Beauty, 
You grace every fete, 
And Lily you rest. 
On the altar sedate. 
Bring cheer to the living. 
And watch o'er the dead, 
Sweet Rose and pure Lily : 
The White and the Red. 



THE MOON 

Silvery moon, thy radiance bright, 
Bathing the scene in a ghostly Hght, 
Makes a sweet fairyland out of the night. 
Where lovers may dream to their hearts delight. 



MY GARDEN SLEEPS 

In my garden, by the window, 
Where the fairest posies grow. 
There's no blossom, — not a flower, — 
Where the roses, sweet, did blow. 

All the bushes and the branches. 
Now, are hung with crystals bright, 
And the flower-beds and pathways, 
Are enwrapped in snow-drifts white. 

It is winter in my garden, 
And all flora is asleep, 
While I wait the resurrection 
When the buds again will peep. 

Then I'll see my friends returning, 
With the first, fond flush of spring. 
And I'll welcome each fair blossom, 
Which the summer-time shall bring. 



SUNSET 

The long, deep seat on the stair. 
In the arch of the window bow, 

Is the place I love at the close of day 
When the sun to its rest must go. 



REFLECTION 

As a lake's calm surface mirrors, 
The mountain's rugg^ed side, 

Kind deeds become reflected 
In a world that's far and wide. 



THE OLD GARDEN 

Beyond the hedge of box, 

The old-time flower still grows, 

In Grandma's quaint, trim garden, 
With stately paths and rows. 

There's phlox and red geranium, 
The tall sun-flower, that blows 

In the breeze that sweeps the garden, 
With a kiss for each tea-rose. 



THE COMING OF WINTER 

Snow-flakes on the window pane, 
Making weird, fantastic forms. 

Fleecy drifts of downy white, 

Scattered o'er the once green lawns. 



BY THE FIRE 

When the feathery flakes of the first falling snow, 
In lacy mantilla enfold the bare trees, 

I love to draw close to the bright, burning log, 
And dream, while my book lightly falls on my 
knees. 



10 



THE BUZZARD 

Upon the window ledge, banked high, 
The snow drifts deep to shut us in. 

There's wood a burning on the hearth, 
And plenty more piled in the bin. 

There's pork in briny pickle packed, 
And vegetables for a year. 

Lay siege, Old Boreas, Lay siege. 
The cider barrel's full of cheer. 



FAREWELL OLD YEAR 

The Christmas feast of joyous cheer, 
Now, fades into the fond New Year. 

Farewell, Old Year, with memories dear. 
Your bright successor now is here. 

New hope springs up to combat fear. 
New stars to lead us, now appear. 



HAIL TO THE NEW YEAR 

The King, Old Year, is dead. 
Long live. New Year, the King. 
Our friendships old, we keep, 
While new ones cherishing. 
To each a greeting now we send, 
"A year of blessing to the end." 



11 



CLOUD SCAMPvS 

A Lullaby 

The little clouds chase 'cross the sky so high. 
Way, far up above where the birds can fly, 
And no one can tell what they're doing there, 
Not even Grandma, in her rocking chair, 
For, though she has watched them through many 

a year. 
She can tell you no more than my own baby dear ; 
But still they go scampering on toward the sun, 
Each trying to beat in the race that they run. 

In winter, in summer, in spring, and in fall, 
They vie with each other, the big and the small. 
They change about colors, to white, pink or gray, 
And take on strange shapes, both fantastic and 

gay: 
They form into pictures of animals wild, 
To frighten each other, as well as my child. 
Then turn into beautiful faces so fair, 
You might take them for angels, with bright gol- 
den hair. 

Then, while we sit watching, they cover the sun, 
So with him you'll play peek-a-boo, my pretty one, 
But at night they keep closer together, my dear, 
Because of their love, or perhaps of some fear : 
So, sleep, Httle baby, and cuddle your head. 
While mother is rocking your snug Httle bed, 
For the "Cloud Scamps" which play all day in 

the sky, 
Are snuggling up now, just like baby and I. 



12 



MOODS 

The music softly drifting through the room, 
Depressed my mind and wrapped my soul in 

gloom ; 
Then, came a change in sweet and plaintive notes, 
That filled my heart, anew, with surest hopes. 

At night I heard the croaking of a frog, 
And all the course of life seemed banked with fog ; 
But, with the dawn there came the robin's song, 
And new-born courage made my heart grow 

strong. 

I lost the love of one both false and fair. 
At which my heart was plunged in deep despair ; 
I found the love of one both true and tried, 
Then, I could see, 'twas best mv first love died. 



THE ROSE 

A garden fair I wandered through. 

Radiant with Nature's blushing blooms 

The changing colors charmed my eye. 
As tapestries from Gobelin's looms. 

One royal rose, of blood-red hue, 
Of graceful shape and perfect form, 

Held me entranced, as if alive. 

And dreaming in the sunshine, warm. 

I reached and touched its slender stem 
And drew it near me, just to smell 

The odor which I knew it gave. 
When, lo, its petals shook and fell. 



13 



With startled shudder I withdrew 

The hand that spoiled its form so fair; 

Then looked aghast at what I'd done 
And wished I'd left it standing there. 

In life 'tis ever thus ; we find 

That by some thoughtless act, or deed, 
We shatter hopes, or crush poor hearts, 

Our curiosity to feed. 

The hardest test that God gave Man 
Was that the apple should remain 

Upon the tree where it had grown. 

And plucking it brought naught but pain. 



DECEIT 

Deceit is like the swish and swash 

Of the ocean's surf, on a wind swept shore, 

Which shifts the sands and traces forms, 
That soon are lost and seen no more. 

With arching waves and cresting caps. 
And a rise and fall that is never sure. 

It lays the marks of the ebbing tide, 

On a shifting sand, that will not endure. 



14 



THE PICTURES IN THE PANE 

In the window pane, now, purpled 
By the sunlight of long years. 

There appear some old-time visions, 
That my boyish heart reveres. 

All alone its secret holding, 

I am often lost in dreams, 
While I watch some fairy picture, 

As with brilliancy it gleams. 

And the purple tints illumine 
All the changing pictures there, 

With a mystic glow resplendent, 
That makes every creature fair. 

For within my magic mirror, 

I behold occasions gay. 
In the days now lost in history. 

Such as Grandma's wedding-day. 

There I watch the guests walk stately 
Through the old-time minuet. 

Or can see them gayly dancing 
In the lanciers, set by set. 

And again I see the children. 

Who were young long years ago. 

As they danced at Christmas parties. 
Moving lightly to and fro. 

There is Papa, scarcely my age, 
And my Aunty, but a child, 

There is Uncle, full of mischief. 

Cutting capers, strange and wild. 



15 



And my Grandpa, at a table, 

Much absorbed in playing chess, 

While dear Grandma smiles serenely, 
In her quaint, old-fashioned dress. 

And my secret window-pictures. 
Keep me gazing at the pane, 

For if once I look behind me, 
I'll not see them there again. 

I will tell no one about them, 
For I early came to know. 

That as soon as others sought them. 
They would fade and quickly go. 

So I dream and see my visions 
In the purple window pane, 

While the children often wonder 
What I'm watching, down the lane. 



THE LETTER 

I'm kept in to write a letter to my "Aunty, " 
And I want to write it, — but it's awful hard 

To think how to spell the words I use, correctly, 
When the other boys are playing in our yard. 

But Mamma says, I can go out playing, later, 
If I write a nice long letter to my aunt. 

But no matter what I think of, nice to tell her. 
When it comes to spelHng words, I simply can't. 

For my thoughts are all about the other fellows. 
Who are having bully fun, out in the yard, 

While for me, it's "stay in doors and write to 
Aunty," 
When I'd rather send a pretty postal-card. 



16 



So I'm going to write my "Aunty" all about it, 
And just tell her that I do not think it's fair, 

For, although I love her just as much as ever, 
I'd a great-deal rather be out playing, there. 

vSo she must excuse all my mistakes in spelling, 

And that, if the writing is not very good, 
She must just remember that my friends are play- 
ing 
A fine game, which we have named "Bold- 
Robin-Hood." 

And the boys say, I'm the Prince, who's held a 
captive, 
Locked within the cold and dismal fortress tower, 
And that they, my comrades bold, have come to 
save me. 
And will surelv have me out within an hour. 



vSo I'll play that "Aunty" is my noble Princess, 
Who is waiting in my Castle till I come. 

Bringing with me spoils-of-war, and richest jewels. 
That in value represent a mighty sum. 

And I'll write and tell her, soon, I'll bring the 
treasures. 
That I've won in bloody battles, fierce and long, 
And I'll urge her not to doubt my safe home-com- 
ing, 
For, my men are warriors, loyal, brave, and 
strong. 



17 



SPRING FEVER 

When the Spring has come a-budding, 
And we boys feel full of "stunts," 

With our poles we vault the brooklet, 
Or, we go on "Indian hunts." 

Then upon the bridge sit watching, 
All the "autos," racing by, 

While we talk about "vacation," 
In the Summer, with a sigh. 

For it seems a long time waiting, 
Till the school days all are done. 

In the Spring we hate our lessons, 
And we want to "just have fun. " 

'Course we have our tops and marbles, 
But as soon as we're at play, 

Goes the school-bell jangle, jangle, 
Just to call us all away. 

Still, we'll have to grin and bear it, 
For the school-year's nearly done. 

And vacation-time's a-coming, 
When we'll have no end of fun. 



SEED SOWING 

When you were a little boy. 

Once, you found a source of joy. 

In a garden that was all your "very own;" 

Where sweet flowers to raise you tried, 

Till they wilted, drooped, and died. 

And with weeds that garden soon was overgrown. 



18 



And you thought you'd fill your town, 

With the fame of your renown, 

As a wonder-worker, — from results thus shown ; 

But your flowers would fail to blow, 

And your seedlings scarce would grow. 

Till, with weeds that garden all was overgrown. 

You would teach the World, to do 
Better things because of you. 
In the days you made that garden, "all alone;" 
But, by failures often made. 
Soon, you learned you must have aid. 
Lest Life's garden should with weeds be over- 
grown. 



LIFE 

When the days reel off with a swing and go, 

For your mind is free, while your heart's aglow, 

And your body's strong, 

And no walk seems long : — 

Then you're young, whether sixteen or sixty. 

When the hours seem longer than days of old ; 

For your heart is sad, while the World looks cold, 

And your bones all ache, 

And you nostrums take: — 

Then you're old, whether eighteen or eighty. 

It is not the years that make youth or age. 

But the record you've kept on life's long page. 

'Tis the things you've done, 

As the months have run, 

In your life, whether nineteen or ninety. 



19 



HAIL TO SPRING 

New hope grows strong within each breast, 

And Cupid cannot be suppressed, 

As all cry, "Hail to Spring." 

The blushing brides will now appear, 

The festal gay, the cup of cheer, 

And wedding bells will ring. 



SUMMER SHOWERS 

The sweet scented breath of the summer is blown 
In my face. 'Tis a forecast of showers. 

I welcome this sign, for it means a new life, 
To the thirsty and sun-beaten flowers. 



ALONE 

Above the stars, beyond the blue, 
My straining eyes e'er seek for you. 
Yet, all my search of sky and space, 
Reveals no glimpse of your dear face. 

But, in my dreams I'm with you, there. 
Where all is bright and wondrous fair. 
Then, when I wake, the seeds are sown 
Of wild despair, — for I'm alone. 



ON THE THRESHOLD 

Her love-lit eye my heart enthralls, 

The World dissolves and is no more, 

My brain is numbed, my thoughts are chained, 

My lips are dumb as ne'er before. 



20 



Where confidence should lead me on, 
And bounding heart would bid me speak, 
I stand embarassed, seeing there 
The world-wide love for which I seek. 

'Though 'tis the time to say good-night, 
It is the crisis in my life. 
Dare I proclaim my love and say, 
"Beloved, will you be my wife?" 



LOVK-LIGHT 

In the glimmering stream of soft light from the 
moon. 

O'er the lake comes a memory sweet. 
To awake a love-song from the dear days of youth, 

Which I sang as I lay at her feet. 

Once again I recall that still night in July, 

As it were, just a fond yesterday ; 
But the far-away moon is no longer alive, . 

With its love-light all faded away. 

And I think of the days when my heart, free from 
care. 

Was all love, and my life was a dream ; 
Yet, the love-light of Hfe, — faded, as in the moon,— 

On my heart still reflects its soft gleam. 

So I sing as of old, the sweet songs of a love. 
That will constant remain, every day, 

For the fires that then burned are still smouldering 
now, 
And I know that they will be, alway. 



21 



IN THE CRUCIBLE 

Out of the moonlight came youthful love, 
Ardent to claim the opportunity, 
And burned he wildly every torch he held. 
To fire response in his affinity. 

But Virtue, proud, a frigid breath exhaled, 
To chill the fires enkindled by Love's flame. 
A cool, calm sense enwrapt the lover's minds, 
And rampant thoughts fled far, for very shame. 

And when beneath the Sun they met again, 
Full conscious of a glorious victory, 
The silent Moon no longer cast the spell, 
And love adored his true affinity. 



SUNSET DREAMS 

Out of a blood-bathed sunset sky. 

Flashed to my heart's heart a wild sweet dream, 

Wildest of thoughts, and all unreal. 

Brought to me, watching, on one bright beam. 

Dreaming, I saw the sun move down. 
Lower and lower it sank to rest. 
And, while it peeped from yonder hill. 
Dreamland was lit by the flaming West. 

Then, in the silence came a song. 
Sweetly, and fondly it sang to me. 
While I inscribed it in my heart, 
That I might sing it, again, to thee. 

Love, burning love— the clouds portrayed, 
Symphonies tuned to a minor key, 
But, with the flagging of those fires. 
Came back, once more, all my doubts to me. 

22 



BIRTHDAYS 

Year after year rolls on its way, 
And time cannot be stayed one day, 
But while new years come in our door, 
We'll count them not for less, nor more. 

For what our age by history sung. 
We'll ne'er be old with hearts still young, 
And Youth will long maintain its hold, 
On those whom years cannot make old. 

Sanguine and happy, day by day, 
Laughing the passing years away. 
Singing and loving, turn each page. 
Leading into a sweet old age. 



THE WHISPERINGS OF THE MUSES 

Should your Muse begin to whisper, 

Words of music in your ear. 

Do not wait, but write it quickly. 

When the inspiration's clear; 

For your Muse will cease inspiring, 

If you fail to hear the song, 

When it comes to charm and cheer you ; 

Be it short, or be it long. 

There are songs, that down the ages, 

Still would echo sweet and clear. 

Had the whisperings of the Muses, 

Been retained by those who hear. 



23 



CAUTION 

Letter-writing is an art, 

Which plays a most important part ' 

In the affairs that touch the heart : 

So careful be, lest you should start 

Some flame, which kindled may impart 

More pain than pleasure, and a dart 

Become, before 'tis dead. 



WHERE LOVE IS TRUE 

My Muse bids me sing a strange love song. 
Not of love in a vine-covered bower, 
Nor beneath the deep shade of the willows, 
Nor of lovers in old castle tower. 

No royal rose garden environs 
The love which my Muse bids me tell, 
No moon shines on romancing sweethearts, 
No stars cast about them their spell. 

'Tis not love in an ivy-twined cottage. 
Nor on yachts that sail calm summer seas. 
Nor is it of laddie and lassie 
As they hark' to the hum of the bees. 

'Tis the love of Pat Murphy and MolHe, 
The laborer's wife, I must write. 
As she cooks the plain meal in the evening. 
As the day fades away into night. 

Through the day she has scrubbed at her wash- 
ing, 
While her baby lies near on the bed, 
Now she sings while she watches the coffee, 
And carefully toasts the dry bread 



24 



She sings, for her man now is coming 
To give her his smile of good cheer, 
As he has at the end of the day's work, 
Every night without fail through the year. 

"Ah, shure, 'tis me own self same darUn', " 
Calls his voice as he opens the door, 
"A cooking me supper, as usual, 
There ne'er was the like born before. 

"Shure, must ye forever be workin'. 
Can't ye wait till I'm home, 'fore ye start? 
Shure, two hands make Hght work, me darlin, 
An' on wash days I'd help wid a part. 

"I could fix up the coffee an' toast, shure, 
I'd lay on the dishes an' cloth, 
And while you was restin' a bit, dear, 
I'd dip out the stew, or the broth. " 

' ' Oh, go on wid yer joking, Pat darlin,' 
Take ye coat off an' thin sit ye down. 
Did ye not hear me singing so happy, 
'Cause I knowed that ye'd soon be around? 

"D'yer think I'd be happy not workin'? 

And ye, wid yer back nearly broke, 

A diggin' all day fer yer wages. 

That might turn me head — such a joke. " 

"Well kiss me then, MolHe, me sweetheart; 
Each day, shure, I'm lovin' ye more. 
For though there may be other women, 
There ne'er was one like you, before. " 



25 



A QUESTION 

When the love that your youth so readily gave, 
Seems a phantom of days that are past, 
You wonder, if ever you could love again, 
As you did; and if so — would it last? 

As you think, you recall happy days that have 

been, 
Sweet moments of bliss, long since gone, 
While you bring back each scene from the long, 

long ago. 
From the days when your young love was bom. 

Can it ever return, that passion of old, 
Which your earliest sweetheart inspired? 
Will your heart, again, beat as it did in those days, 
When to love and be loved, you aspired. 



HARRIETTE 

Sweet Harriette, your winning smile, 
Your soulful eye, your dainty grace. 
Those features delicate, refined, 
With golden curls about your face. 
All charm me 'till I seem to see 
Some goddess of an ancient race. 

No Celtic princess, Teuton bride, 
Fair queen of Egypt, Rome or Gaul, 
Nor beauty of the Eastern World, 
Who ruled a court, or graced a ball, 
Could rival you in graces rare. 
For you, fair one, outshine them all. 

In early days when Indian tribes 
Did roam this country of the free. 



26 



You surely would have been enthroned 
In wigwam 'neath some sacred tree, 
Or by the Norsemen, on the shore, 
To rule the Vikings of the sea. 

Yet in our midst you move about. 

At festal fete, or home time hour, 

A simple maid of charming mien, 

Your virtues rich, a royal dower, 

'Midst free men of this land, their Queen, 

Unconscious of your mighty power. 



SOUTHERN EYES 

To shoot, I went to Southern wilds. 

Seeking both rest and game : 
I met a mountain maiden fair. 

No Northern will could tame. 

Do you know what it is to fall in love 

With a luscious pair of eyes, 
The kind that sparkle and bum and snap, 

In the light of the vSouthem skies : 

Where passion and love live side by side. 

While innocence flashes its fire, 
And longing and sympathy both hold sway, 

Yet virtue controls desire? 

Do you know what it is to be held entranced 

By a soul such eyes reflect? 
If your cold heart never has thus been stirred, 

You have little in life to expect. 

Bum on and flash ye eyes of black, 
Though you break my heart in play ; 

I'd rather, than live a whole life through, 
Be thy martyr of this sweet day. 

27 



A CORNER OF THE LIBRARY 

There's a comer of my library 

Where I often Uke to go, 
To take down some faded volume, 

From a worn and age-stained row. 

They are books around which cluster 
Many memories that are dear, 

For they were my boyhood treasures. 
That I've had for many-a-year. 

There are books that " Mother " gave me. 

In her writing, they're inscribed 
" To a loving son, from Mother." 

Sweetest mem'ries there abide. 

There are, also, books from " Father," 
To " his boy," with greetings fond, 

Which bring back those days of fishing 
With " My daddy," in some pond. 

There are books from brothers, sisters, 
And they each recall some thought 

Of the days when home was perfect, 
With a Peace that can't be bought. 

There are Christmas books from fellows 
That I used to " chum " with, then, 

And one volume from " my sweetheart," 
When my years were six-and-ten. 

The inscription, in this treasure, 

Is too sacred to write down, 
For, though life our ways has parted, 

I'd regret to make her frown. 



28 



Twenty years, 'tis since I saw her, 

And I've never married yet. 
It was but the love of boyhood, 

Yet, a love I'll ne'er forget. 

As I turn those leaves devoutly, 

I can feel my heart beat fast 
With the love of " sixteen summers." 

Though, so many years have paSvSed. 

And I dream of her, as being, 
Just the same as she was then, 

While I wish that I might see her, 
And might tell her, once again. 

What I told her, with such ardor, — 
While I blushed as if a girl, — 

When I asked her, as a token 
Of her love, for just one curl. 

But, strange changes have come over 
Both " the sweethearts " of that day; 

And the " girl " is now a woman. 
While " the boy " is getting gray. 

And the World, which then seemed joyful, 

Since, has proved a sohere of care, 
Where a youth would rush in blindly, 
When a man would scarcely dare. 

But that corner of my Hbrary, 

Holds that volume from " my girl," 

And I often kiss the book-mark, — 
Just a brownish golden curl. 



29 



AT GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE 

Can you remember that " spare-room " bed, 
Where you used to shiver and cover your head 
With the counterpane, quilted, in white and red. 
At Grandmother's house? 

Can you recall those jolly, good days, 
When the farmer'd " no use for new fangled ways " 
Of heating the rooms, — where the visitor stays — 
At Grandmother's house? 

My! Wasn't it cold, on those winter nights? 
And didn't you think that you saw strange sights — 
Weird shadowy ghosts when there were no lights, 
At Grandmother's house? 

But, wasn't it fine, to wake after dawn, 

And scamper, with night-shirt and slippers on. 

To the sitting-room stove, which would burn till 

mom, 
At Grandmother's house? 

Then, to dress just enough to go to the shed. 
To " duck," in the frosty spring water, your head. 
And come out with your cheeks all tingling and 

red, 
At Grandmother's house? 

'Twas then you could eat with a good appetite, 
And everything cooked always tasted "just right" — 
Remember the doughnuts and milk late at night — 
At Grandmother's house? 



30 



MY FIRST POCKETS 

There is much that I remember, 
And there's more that I forget, 

But my first " pants," with real pockets, 
I have not forgotten yet. 

Wondrous pockets, were those first ones, 
And the things they stowed away, 

Set all the boys a-staring. 

When their contents I'd display. 

There were tops, and nails, and fish-hooks, 
There was string of every kind. 

There were marbles and some candy. 
And a piece of old cheese-rind. 

There was chewing gum, fast sticking 

To a penny bright and new, 
A bird's nest, and a number 

Taken from the big church pew. 

There were buttons, strange and common, 

And a pencil and a pin, 
A silk-spool and a jack-knife 

With one thick blade and one thin. 

The things that never rested 
In those famous pockets, new, 

Could be written in a jiffy. 
For they'd be but mighty few. 

There is only one good reason 

Why a thing was never there. 
That's because it was too big, 

Or, perhaps, I didn't care. 



31 



I remember Mother's scolding 

When I found a "poor, dead mouse," 

And her plain, and firm, instructions, 
" Don't you bring it in the house." 

But it went down in my pocket, 
When her eyes were turned away, 

And I " swapped it " with a school mate, 
For an old pipe bowl, of clay. 

When I'd gone my way to dreamland, 
And dear Mother'd fold my clothes. 

She would take out all my treasures. 
And then lay them out in rows. 

There were some things often missing, 
In the morning, when I'd look, 

But I never cared, for Mither'd 
Always tell me what she took. 

Then, my pockets got so loaded 

With a lot of dandy stuff. 
That I soon forgot the lost things, 

For, I always had enough. 

But my bulging first pants-pockets 
Were the greatest wealth I've known, 

And I've ne'er possessed real riches. 
Since those pockets were out-grown. 



32 



WHEN LIFE WAS ALL FUN 

Those were good, happy days, 

When, as boys, we could run, 
And romp in the fields. 

And get tanned in the sun. 
The weeks of vacation, 

When school days were done, 
And books were forgotten. 

And life was all fun. 

'Twas then that the squirrels. 

Were kept on the run. 
For they fought mighty shy. 

Of a boy with a gun. 
And the fish, in deep waters. 

Our new hooks would shun, 
For they knew there 'd be trouble, 

When Hfe was all fun. 

The birds and the game, 

Were wise, every one, 
And would keep in the brush, 

When the school year was done. 
Yet, we'd follow through thicket, 

Or swamp, with a gun, 
For time didn't count. 

When life was all fun. 

On days when great floods 

In the gutters did run, 
'Twas up in the hay-loft, — 

Oh, such yams as were spun, 
Of robbers and cow-boys, 

And the deeds they had done; — 
For 'twas summer vacation. 

And life was all fun, 



33 



BOYHOOD SPORTS 

Catching fish in silvery stream, 
While you wait you think and dream, 
At the break of day, 
From the month of May, 
Till the winter comes at last 
With its frost and chilHng blast. 

Then you're off to coast and slide, 
And enjoy the cold sleigh ride. 
Frost and falling snow, 
Nipping ear and toe. 
Till again comes lovely May, 
And for fishing you're away. 

So the years will quickly run, 
Till your manhood has begun, 
With its conflicts, cares. 
Growing " wheat and tares:" 
Then will memories of the past 
Help you pluck and bum these last. 

Those fond boyhood sports remain, 
Cheering comforters in pain. 
Which at times must come, 
In life's long hum-drum. 
Till the sun again shall beam, 
Warming up life's winding stream. 

GOLDEN FRUIT 

" Ripe apples, sir, only a penny? 

They're nice ones, all yellow, like gold; 
I've just a few left in my basket." 

The child's voice was trembling with cold. 



34 



She stood 'neath the glare of the lamp-post, 
Where the frosty wind cut to the bone, 

Her scanty clothes gave no protection, 
Standing there, with her basket alone. 

The man hurried by, scarce observing 

This little bread-winner of seven, 
When there flashed through his mind this one 
sentence, 

" For of such is the kingdom of heaven.*' 

He turned and walked back to the corner, 
" Why are you out here in the cold?" 

" My mother is sick, sir; I'm helping, 
I'll go home when my apples are sold." 

He thought of his own child, now waiting. 
By the cheerful, warm nursery fire, 

To welcome him on his arrival; 

And her mother, his fond heart's desire. 

He took all the ripe golden apples, 

And gave to the child a crisp bill ; 
" Now, run along home, little daughter, 

Or you'll catch a cold and be ill." 

A smile quickly came o'er her features, 
" Oh, thank you, sir; now I can go;" 

Then, as he walked ofi, she ran after, 

" Twas ten dollars you gave; did you know?" 

" Yes, yes, little one, that's all right; 

Now hurry on home and get warm." 
Were the tears in his eyes from the cold, 

As he wished her "God speed" and ''no harm?" 



35 



HAPPY TEARS 

A few tiny garments, laid-by in a box, 

Neatly tied with blue ribbon, in the days that 
are gone. 

She kisses these treasures, which carry her back 
To the time when her one little baby was bom. 

A merry young voice calls her out of her dreams, 
As she puts, once again, the old box in its place. 

** Why, Mother, you're crying — What has hap- 
pened?" he says. 
As he kisses the tale-telling tears from her face. 

" Just tears of remembrance, from long, long ago," 

She whispers, and fondles his brown, curly hair. 

" Sometimes, one sheds happy tears, Darling, you 

see, 

Like the dew-drop^ that come when the weather 

is fair." 

THE IJGHT HOUSE 

Scanning the sea, like an eagle's eye. 
Search-light of Navesink, thrashing the sky, 
Watching for mariners sorely distressed, 
Light in the gloom to those bitterly pressed ; 
Like the good that shines out in a care-ridden 

world, 
Keep flashing your warning, lest ships should be 

hurled 
On the strands, or the bars, or the rocks of the 

shore, 
And lives that are precious, be lost by the score. 
Around in your circle continue to whirl, 
So that ships in safe harbor their canvas may furl. 
And a light in the darkness to sailors still be 
'Till the earth shall itself be engulfed in the sea. 

36 



A ROMANCE OF THE ROCKS 

An ocean Swell 
To a Mermaid belle 

Said: "Won't you elope with me? 
You shall wear my crest, 
And forever rest, 

In the light of the moon-swept sea. 

"You shall travel wide 
On the flowing tide, 

In the trough that follows me; 
While your hair is drest 
By the combing crest 

Of the billows of the sea. 

"While you float in your nest 
On the Ocean's breast 

I'll murmur my love to thee. 
And we'll drift away. 
While seafolk say, 

'They're the sweethearts of the sea.'" 

But old Neptune, 
Who heard them spoon, 

Stirred the ocean into foam. 
So the Swell couldn't wait 
To hear his fate, 

And the Mermaid stayed at home. 



37 



THE CRY OF RUSSIA 

A voice came over the restless seas, 

Riding the waves on a stiff west breeze; 

I scarce could catch the tale that it told, 

But the words were fierce and the language bold. 

'Twas the cry of the long downtrodden slaves, 

And curse after curse came in with the waves. 

"No quarter, — no mercy, — no peace," — was the 

cry, 
"Give us liberty, freedom, or else let us die. 
Long years have we suffered the iron bound hand, 
That has crushed in its grasp every hope of our 

land. 
We want no crumbs from a royal repast, 
But give us our freedom, and Peace that will last." 



RETRIBUTION 

Rattle and shake, ye old, dry bones, 

Of a dynasty past and effete. 
You're the damp, cold ghost of a dead regime. 

And your ruin is now complete. 

Tremble and quake, ye autocrats, 

While your reign of oppression dies. 

You crushed the weak and you killed the strong, 
And were deaf to the childrens' cries. 

Now, millions of homes, which you deluged with 
woe. 

Shriek curses on you in hate, 
And shout, in a chorus that fills the Earth, 

"Too late, — too late, — too late." 



38 



THE SIGN IN THE SKY 

Like the blade of a curving scimitar, 

In the deep of the dark night sky, 
Hangs the new-bom moon o'er the Russian homes, 

Where the slaughtered people die. 

Has God shut his eyes, to the awful woe 

Of those who writhe and swoon, 
That a blazen sword is swung on high. 

In the place of the tranquil moon? 

Or is it the sign of vengeance, sure 

To fall on each guilty head, 
When the sentence rings through earth and sky, 

" Let the murders die, like their dead?" 

THE CALL OF THE STARS 

Stars of the night, so bright and mysterious, 
Sparkhng like gems in the deep azure set. 

As I gaze at you, up in the heavens a-gleaming. 
With hot blinding tears are my eyes quickly 
wet. 

How do you thus move me so strangely, so deeply? 

Impelling my thoughts to those far distant 

days, 

When, then, as a simple, young child I did watch 

you, 

Before I knew ought of the world's wicked ways. 

Why do I so clearly recall my dear mother. 
Beside whom I stood when I first learned to say 

The verses that told of my wonder about you, 
As night shut us in at the close of the day? 



And, why do my lips start to reverently murmur, 
The words, *' Now I lay me," when ready to 
sleep? 
That sweet, simple prayer which in childhood I 
offered. 
Asking that, through the night. He in safety 
would keep? 

What is this strange spell that you cast .round 
about me, 

Which quickly eliminates all time, and space, 
And makes me stop short, as I think, and I realize 

How I have neglected those first means of grace ? 

You cannot bring back the pure life of my child- 
hood. 

With all of its simple, unquestioning trust ; 
Nor, can you restore the old faith that I once had. 

To fight against worldliness, avarice and lust. 

Yet, as your pure radiance shines down upon me, 
My soul fills with hope and responds to your 
call. 

Back, to the old, simple faith of my childhood, 
Back, to the days that preceded my fall. 

Back, to the knees of that dear, saintly mother. 

Back, 'till I feel the caress of her hand, 
As she pushes back, lightly, the hair from my 
forehead. 
While she points out the way to the fair prom- 
ised land. 

Again, I can feel her arms snuggle about me ; 

Once more her sweet kisses are drying my tears, 
And now, once again, as in days of my childhood, 

Comes the courage to face both temptation and 
fears. 



40 



COURAGE 

Have faith and hope, for though the heart be 
heavy, 
While care and trouble have perplexed your 
way, 
Remember that the night is always darkest 
Before the breaking into glorious day. 

There never was a day so dark as seemeth, 

When looked at through the fogs, and darkened 
more 
By minds depressed by painful, bitter troubles, 
And hearts despondent, bruised and crushed 
and sore. 

Think what the world was once, with no Messiah ; 

Think how His wondrous birth made darkness 
light; 
Why then despair because of passing troubles? 

A single day may make your life more bright. 

Through ages long the Jews proved patient, wait- 
ing, 

Yet few were fitted their rich prize to gam, 
Shall we not strive in faith to wait His hour 

To shower blessings freely as the rain? 

All life is made of many trying contrasts. 

The rain and sunshine quickly changing place. 

While joy and trouble ever seem competing 
For leading place in hfe's continuous race. 

'Mid joys we should not ever feel too sanguine. 
For soon they've fled with laughing, mocking 
scorn, 

While troubles we should think of as but poachers, 
And bid them, once again, be off and gone. 



41 



The blessings that we have are well worth prizing, 
The trials but the testing of our strength, 

Life's journey is obstructed oft' with troubles, 
But joys extend through its entire length. 

Be thankful that each day begets a blessing, 
The Christ Child had sore troubles in His path. 

Let thanks go up to Him, who kindly keeps us 
To gather, daily, at the family hearth. 



THE CALL 

You tell me he is dead? That youth. 
With frame of steel and muscles strong; 

The athlete who had courage both 
To shun temptation and the wrong. 

My friend, but yesterday so bright, 
So full of hope and life and power. 

And now, you tell me he has gone. 
As 'twere the passing of an hour. 

Yet I live on, and others live. 

Who oft' have stood so near Death's door, 
And we survive to add up years, 

While he, the strong, has gone before. 

Your words fall as a mighty blow, 
To fill me with mysterious fear. 

Why are the good and strong cut down, 
To leave the weaklings waiting here? 
***** 

There breaks a light in this dark hour, 
The mystery is now made clear. 

The vacant places there are filled 

By those who've won their laurels here. 



42 



FAITH 

The night is dark and fog obscures my course, 
And I am stunned and cannot see my way, 

Yet, far above the haze, shines out the star. 
That shepherds saw, on that first Christmas day. 

And there is comfort in this single thought; — 
I know that star will lead me on and on, 

Although unseen, a guiding power to be, 
Until the mysteries of life are gone. 



BLACK AND WHITE 

Some folks dey goes a huntin'. 

Away back in de woods, 

An' miles an' miles dey seem to want to roam. 

But the darkey likes de bestest, 

Fo' to go out late at night, 

An' ketch de cunning possum near at home. 

Some folks goes huntin' game birds, 

An' lookin' round fo' quail, 

An' takes along a dog dey keeps a ** sickin'," 

But dis darkey find mo' pleasure, 

A hangin' round a " coop," 

An' slyly pulling out a fat young " chicken." 

De white folks has dere huntin,' 

An' it may be mighty fine. 

An' perhaps dey knows a heap mo dan de "coon, 

But de darkey gets his pleasure. 

In his own peculiar way, 

A prowlin' by de silvery Southern moon. 



43 



AT NIGHT 

The sun has set in the Western sky, 

Its after-glow has past, 
The birds have quietly gone to sleep, 

And the woods are dark at last. 

Quietly out from the shore there glides, 
A canoe with hunter and guide, 

Scarcely a ripple stirs the calm, 
As over the lake they ride. 

Not a sound from the paddle's blade 
Disturbs the still of the night, 

Only a pair of silent men, 

Watch some shy deer to sight. 

A sudden gleam shines across the lake 

Two eyes reflect its light, 
A flash from a gun, then falls a deer, 

Thus ends the hunt of a night. 



THE REASON 

The old fish know the sun is out, 
Because they see no " bobs " about, 
And when it rains they know it, too, 
By angle-worms on hooks of blue. 

So then they wisely **ope' their eye," 
Lest they mistake a bogus " fly " 
And sport themselves in deepest pools, 
While younger fish are silly fools. 

This will explain, at least it ought. 
Why small fish are more often caught, 
While big fish lie in hidden nooks, 
Far from the points of dangerous hooks. 

44 



COME ON BOYS 

Come on, boys ! It's time for fishing, 
On the lake, or by the brooks. 

Get your poles and lines together, 

Then pick out some good, sharp hooks. 

Get your bait, and take a plenty. 
Just the kind to make them bite, 

And, if I am half a guesser. 

We'll bring home a " mess " by night. 

Shall we try the brook, or river? 

Or the lake — what do you say? 
There's the deep hole by the mill dam, 

How'll that do to try today? 

Well, come on! We're losing time, boys. 

Got your knife to scrape and clean ? 
Now, we're off. The weather's perfect. 

As fine a day as I have seen. 

Whistle, boys, while we are walking. 

That will bring a breeze, you know, 
Rufifling up the water, then, boys, 

The fish won't see us from below. 

Whistle some good, snappy march tune, 

With a lot of swing and go. 
That's the stuff — now stretch your legs out, 

It's only, 'bout a mile or so. 

Now, we're all young boys, together. 
Age forsworn, and fancy free. 

When the fish, begin " a-jumpin'" 
Sixteen' s no less than sixtv- three. 



45 



THE AWAKENING 

The voice of spring upon the air, 
And earthy odors everywhere, 
Declare the winter's gone. 
The crocus lifts its yellow head, 
Beside its mate of flaming red, 
And grass peeps through the lawn. 



'TWAS EVER THUS 

In the days when brave knights won fair maidens, 
By fair means, or by foul, if need be. 

Came the Lady Elaine from her castle. 
For a walk by the wall near the sea. 

Never heeding, she passed the young lover. 
Unto whom her heart seemed as but steel, 

But, her eye caught her name on a letter. 
On the wall — with his crest on the seal. 

It was then, that the woman within her. 
Overpowered her haughty disdain. 

" I must learn its fond message," she reasoned. 
" Could a woman, who's human, refrain?" 

She could feel that he watched, from a distance. 
And to read was a weakness confessed. 

So, she leaned on the wall, looking seaward, 
With a mind that was sorely distressed. 

•* It were better to die, than be tortured, 

By inquisitive, curious mind; 
And to Hve, and ne'er know what he's written. 

Would be torment and torture combined." 



46 



'Twas the same as with Eve and the apple, 
And the bold lover knew what to do. 

When he took her hand, gently, she murmured; 
" I'd no thought of it being from you." 



THE RE-INCARNATION OF YOUTH 

When the leaves of the trees unfold in the spring, 
And the birds have returned, and so merrily sing; 
When the brooks crowd their banks with their 

crystal-clear tide, 
And the boys, with their poles, fish the streams 

far and wide; — 

When the first blades of grass appear on the lawn, 
And the earth is enwrapt in its new Hfe, just born ; 
Then, I feel, once again, that quickening pulse. 
Which brings back my youth, with its boyish 
impulse. 

*Tis then, as I tramp by the river or lake, 

I'm the boy, as of old, who, his " tackle " would 

take, 
And wander for hours, alone with his dreams. 
While he dangled his hook in the mirror-like 

streams. 

The spring-Hfe, within, dispells all my fears. 
That have come, in the winter of Hfe, with the 

years, 
While the re-incarnation of youth, in my soul. 
Makes me strive for the ripest old-age as a goal. 



47 



SCHOOL DAYS 

I wonder if the school house, where 

I spent such happy years, 
Looks as it did when we were young, 

With neither cares nor fears? 

I wonder would the class room be 

As it was long ago ? 
And would the same old desks be there, 

Placed in a double row? 

I wonder would the names be there, 
Scratched on the window pane, 

And would the comer-closet hide 
That painful "master's cane"? 

I wonder would it seem the same 

Old place it used to be, 
Or would it be all changed and new, 

And look quite strange to me? 

I wonder could I conjure up 

The faces of my mates, 
And see the boys and pretty girls, 

All bending o'er their slates? 

I wonder would the one I loved 

With all my youthful heart, 
Look up, and give that " friendship's sign " 

Without which we'd not part? 

I wonder has that old school changed, 

As has the world, with years? 
If so the sight would bring but pain. 

And dim the eyes with tears. 



48 



I wonder where those school friends are ? 

Some have, no doubt, since died. 
Some cHmbed to fame and fortune's lap, 

And others wandered wide. 



FRIENDSHIP 

When the winter sky is gloomy, 

And the feathery snow-flakes fly, 
May your heart be warmed by friendships, 

That can never fade and die. 
And among those friends found faithful, 

Let my name be written clear. 
As one who changeth never, 

In the bright days and the drear. 



41) 



EC U t90b 



